


The Fact of the Matter

by decanthrope



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Baking, Blow Jobs, Drunkenness, Established Relationship, M/M, kind of PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-08
Updated: 2016-04-08
Packaged: 2018-05-31 23:15:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6491371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/decanthrope/pseuds/decanthrope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There were three things Harry knew about Draco. 1. He was a lightweight; 2. He was an affectionate and/or competitive drunk; 3. No matter what state of being, he was incredibly impressionable. The one thing Harry knew about himself when it came to Draco was that when Draco pushed, he pushed back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Fact of the Matter

An unequivocal fact that Harry had come to know in the three years he had been dating Draco Malfoy was that he was a lightweight.

One glass of wine and he was tipsy; two and he tried to hold conversations with the houseplants. On the rare occasion that Harry didn’t safeguard it from happening, three glasses tended to put him down for the count.

Taking this into consideration, they didn’t drink often. While it was undisputed that Draco enjoyed the act of _being_ drunk, he tended to whine like a bitch the next morning until Harry had forced the contents of a hangover cure down his throat, and served him his obligate three cups of coffee.

Harry himself was not a fan of hangovers, and while his alcohol tolerance tended to be greater than Draco’s, having to deal with his cranky arse the next morning was not his idea of a good time.

That didn’t stop invitations from coming, however, and every so often, they’d be called out by Ron and Hermione, or Pansy and Blaise for a night on the town.

Another unequivocal fact about Draco was that he either became incredibly affectionate when drunk—not that Harry minded too much if it meant he got a lapful of his boyfriend trying to cuddle him to drunkenness and beyond—or incredibly obstinate.

Harry was very much the sort of drunk that could be goaded into a great deal of things he might not ordinarily partake in when completely sober, and he had always been weak when it came to Draco pushing him.

Their friends, of course, thought this was the most hilarious thing in the world, and encouraged them to get sloshed for the inherent entertainment they got out of Draco and Harry making idiots of themselves in public.

The third and final unequivocal fact about Draco Malfoy that Harry could recite was that Draco was impressionable, no matter his state of being. One only needed to say the right word, or complain loudly enough about something to spark Draco’s interest, and then keep talking about it in order for Draco’s obsessive nature to pick it up.

That was, unfortunately, how Harry found himself glaring drunkenly at Blaise at half 11 Friday night in the Hog’s Head, ruing the day he had ever decided that, actually, Blaise was quite alright. This was evidently a glaring error on Harry’s part—the obvious correction was that Blaise was not alright. In fact, he was _very much_ not alright in Harry’s books if he was going to keep talking about what he wouldn’t do for a cupcake at that very moment.

Already, he could feel Draco, curled in his lap and lazily brushing his nose into the junction of Harry’s neck and shoulder, perking up at the mention of confectionery. It didn’t take much to pique his interest when sweets were the topic of discussion.

“I’d sell my own grandmother for a red velvet with royal icing right now. I’d... I’d sell _your_ grandmother,” Blaise said emphatically to Pansy, who wasn’t paying the slightest bit of mind to him. Instead she was focused on piling a mountain of salt on the flesh between her index and thumb in preparation for the tequila shot that had just rather mysteriously arrived at their table.

“Shut up,” Harry hissed at Blaise, attempting to kick him under the table, but missing, and hitting a chair leg instead.

It was too late, however. Draco’s head was no longer on his shoulder, and he was already sporting an intransigent look on his face.

“Cupcakes?” he asked of Blaise, whom Harry was going to dig a grave and murder at his earliest convenience.

“Ye- _yeaaah,”_ Blaise sighed dreamily, eyes glazed by either drink or cupcake lust. “Raspberry and white chocolate, vanilla buttercream, caramel drizzle....”

Harry attempted another kick. This time, it landed, only it was Pansy who jolted in her chair and choked on her wedge of lime. Harry tried to look as innocent as possible when her spluttering stopped.

It wasn’t difficult, as Draco had whipped around in his lap to stare at him through narrowed eyes.

“Harry—” he started, but Harry, anticipating what was coming next, cut him off quickly.

“No. We’re not getting cupcakes.”

This was exactly the wrong thing to say to quell Draco’s interest in the matter.

“Harry, so help me, there _will_ be cupcakes.”

“Draco, I don’t even know where we’d get any. Sainsbury’s is closed. Tesco is closed. I doubt there are any open bakeries this time of night.”

This was when Pansy intervened to push shot glasses into all of their hands, and Harry, grateful for the distraction, didn’t have the foresight to quit while he was ahead.

Looking back, that was probably when he damned the whole night to hell.

* * *

 

It was just gone 1am when they drunkenly stumbled into their flat arguing vociferously.

“I’ll... I’ll sh-shooow... show _you,_ Potter!” Draco was slurring, hanging off Harry’s shoulder as they tried to manoeuvre through the lounge and into the kitchen. “I’m gonna... I’munna make the... make the best cupcakes you’ve ever seen!”

Harry’s shin clipped the corner of the coffee table on their way by, and he swore incoherently.

“Piss off, Malfoy,” he returned once he had got himself back under control. “I bet yours’re gonna taste like dirt! Mine’re gonna be... be _so_ much better!” He was drawing out his vowels to his alarm.

“You’ll never win!” Draco wailed against his ear, and Harry started, instinctively shoving Draco off him, who dropped like a sack of potatoes without his support.

He stared at the heap his boyfriend made on the tiled floor of their kitchen bemusedly, trying to understand how he had got there. What had they been saying? Harry frowned, trying to recall what they were arguing about. He couldn’t exactly remember, but it seemed of the utmost importance that he tell Draco he was wrong. He usually was, so it wasn’t much of a leap of logic. And it felt right.

“You’re wrong,” he slurred vehemently at Draco, then prodded him with a toe when he started to crawl-drag himself toward the island in the middle of the kitchen.

“My cupcakes’ll be the...” Draco scowled, looking like he was concentrating very hard for a second, before his expression smoothed out again, “the most delicious! More deliciouser than... than... than yours!”

Harry grinned at Draco. Even three sheets to the wind, he knew that “ _deliciouser”_ was not a word. He’d have to remember that for the morning so he could tease Draco about his ineloquence.

It took them longer than it should have to assemble the equipment and ingredients they needed to make cupcakes. Drunk as he was, Harry was still fairly certain that they were making a right hack at it, but every time he thought about trying to balance his ingredients, Draco would list over his side of the counter, peer foggily into Harry’s batter, make some disparaging comment about Harry’s sure loss, and he’d forget how many eggs he had added to his batter, or whether he had already put in all of his flour or not.

Harry had just gone to slide his tray into the oven and realized that in all the fuss, they’d forgotten to even turn it on when he looked over to see that Draco had face-planted onto to granite countertop and was snoring.

 _His_ batter, Harry was happy to notice, was lumpy, and inexplicably looked to be a pale shade of green. Harry had no idea why, but was content to think that this probably meant he would come out the champion in their bake-off.

* * *

 

Harry woke the next morning to a long moan, followed by a low, short grunt.

Harry often woke to the sound of moaning, but this wasn’t the good kind that meant that Draco had woken up in a very good mood, indeed, and was inclined to share the happy feeling with Harry.

He peered blearily at the ankle directly in his line of sight, and winced when he tried to move his tongue and found it glued to the roof his mouth. Then, the pounding in his head made itself apparent, and he could very much sympathize with the sounds Draco was making at his feet.

“Hate your friends,” he grunted, squeezing his eyes shut and trying to swallow past his scratchy throat.

Draco’s flailing was probably an attempt to kick him, but the pathetic sounds he was making somewhat lessened the viciousness of his attack. Harry buried his face in his arm and thought about all the reasons why drinking was an awful, terrible thing—it wasn’t very hard, as he had a number of physical, and very insistent, cues to remind him.

“Shut up!” he moaned as Draco practiced his whale sounds again, and was pinched on the back of his thigh for his troubles.

When Harry felt able to, he levered himself onto his elbows and squinted at Draco. He had fallen asleep in his glasses, and though the lenses had been pressed against his face and were smeared with grease, he could see Draco attempting to burrow into the tiles of their kitchen floor, hair clumped together with what was probably cupcake batter.

“ _Accio_ hangover cure,” he whispered, closing his eyes against the light streaming in from the lounge windows. A moment later, the glass vial thumped against his palm, and he cracked an eye open to pull the stopper out and guzzle down half of it. Without comment,, he pressed the slim tube into Draco’s hand.

The headache, queasiness and buzzing sound in his ears didn’t dissipate entirely, but several seconds later, Harry was feeling much better about the world.

It was only a matter of minutes before Draco was in a similar state, no longer making his horrid sounds, though he still managed to look worse for wear. Harry knew for fact that Draco was better off at the moment, having imbibed a fair deal less alcohol than Harry had himself. He grumpily dragged his boyfriend to standing.

“Coffee,” Draco whined, slumping into one of the bar stools and all but collapsing on the countertop, narrowly missing the mostly dried contents of a broken egg.

Wordlessly, Harry flicked the switch for the kettle on and went about setting up two cups—coffee for Draco that was more sugar and milk than anything else, and a nice, strong cup of tea for himself.

While they waited, Harry cast a wary eye around the room.

The kitchen was in a right state. Somehow, they had managed to have coated most of the available space in a layer of flour. There was a crusted puddle of batter on the hob where Harry had inexpertly tried to spoon it into his muffin tin and undoubtedly missed. He could see what looked to be no less than five broken eggs on the countertop, and two on the floor, splattered along the ground level cupboards. He couldn’t remember having made such a mess—at the time, he had felt completely in control of his actions.

Harry could feel the vestiges of his headache pulsing behind his eyes and sighed, rubbing at his forehead warily. It felt suspiciously gritty.

When the kettle started to whistle, Draco moaned and clutched at his head like a child, much to Harry’s fond amusement.

“I hate drinking,” Draco told him sourly as he floated their mugs over to the island and took a seat.

“I never want to see another shot glass in my life,” Harry agreed easily, and at the mention, Draco looked as though he might chunder.

It took ten minutes and a refill for Draco to affect human again and finally lift his head for more than gulping down his coffee.

Harry was paying little mind to him, ensconced in a pleasantly thick fog of not-thought and staring at nothing in the manner he was wont to do on such mornings.

“Harry,” Draco said out of nowhere, and Harry hummed absentmindedly, only vaguely cognizant of his name. Draco smacked him on the shoulder and tried again, more strongly. “Harry. For fuck’s sake— _Potter!_ What the fuck did you _do_?”

Harry turned to him, blinking slowly.

“Hm?”

Draco hit him again, then gestured what he meant.

Harry eyed the muffin tray blankly. In the space of a few short seconds, he contemplated whether it was possible for cupcakes to have turned into rocks overnight. Amorphous lumps sat in each well of the tray, completely black, and (when Harry reached out to touch one) more dense than any baked good had a right to be.

He turned back to Draco.

“You wanted cupcakes,” was all he said slowly.

Draco’s jaw dropped.

“You call those cupcakes?!”

Harry felt he was being more obnoxious than the matter called for, and raised an eyebrow at his boyfriend.

“They’re closer than what you managed last night,” he stated peaceably, nodding at the bowl with the lumpy, green mess in it. “I may not be a bake-off expert, but I’m pretty sure you have to have _baked_ something to win.”

“Win?!” Draco snorted. He had pried one of the cupcakes out of the tin and was inspecting it critically. Harry didn’t have much faith in a glowing assessment as the thing was completely black on the top and looked terribly unappetizing. “I think I clearly win this one. _My_ cupcakes aren’t burnt.”

“You don’t even have cupcakes,” he frowned, confused.

“Exactly. It’s obvious in that case, that I’m the unmistakable winner.”

Harry scowled at him, and pushed him off his stool, where he sprawled gracelessly on the floor and muttered expletives up at him.

“It’s like I said, Malfoy: it’s in the name. You didn’t even get to the baking stage of the bake-off before you passed out like a wimp. At least I got all the way through.”

Draco stood with jerky movements and reached for his bowl, glaring at Harry.

“ _My_ cupcakes are going to win. What’s more, they’ll be perfect, which is more than I can say about yours.”

Harry stared incredulously.

“You can’t bake them _now_ , you... you... you utter _boob_! It’s--it’s against the rules! Automatic disqualification. You failed to make any cupcakes last night when you passed out. I made... well, I made _something_ , so I win by default. Anything you make now is just _cheating_. ”

“You can’t disqualify me!” Draco argued snootily. “We never agreed on a time limit. You might as well concede defeat now. I’ll win.”

Then, before Harry’s very eyes, Draco started spooning the batter into his waiting muffin tray.

“Un-bloody-believable,” Harry stated as Draco slid the tray into the oven and set the temperature.

“It’s not my fault you didn’t think things through,” Draco said acidly.

Harry had followed him over to the oven, and, at this, stepped closer until he was boxing Draco in with a hand on either side of his hips.

“You are _infuriating._ ” He hoped his displeasure was fully conveyed in his scowl, but Draco seemed unfazed, and leaned in until there were only a sliver of space between them.

“Yeah,” he mumbled. “But it turns you on.” Then, he rolled his hips up against Harry’s and pressed their mouths together in a filthy imitation of a kiss. Their tongues slid against each other’s, and then Draco was drawing Harry’s into his mouth and sucking on it.

Harry groaned, tightening his grip on Draco’s hips and pressing their groins more firmly together.

“ _Fuck!”_ he breathed as Draco rocked against him sharply, one hand fisted in the hair at his nape and the other raking a path down his shoulder blade and back. In punishment, he drew Draco’s bottom lip into his mouth and bit down, working it between his teeth meanly. He swallowed Draco’s whimper and set about licking at the injured flesh while he wormed a hand between their bodies to work at their trousers, desperate for skin-on-skin contact.

“Love it when you’re impatient,” Draco gasped out, tugging mercilessly at Harry’s hair and guiding him. Harry happily went, laving greedy kisses to the smooth throat presented to him.

Blindly, he freed Draco’s cock from his pants, squeezing the swollen head and breaking a pearl of precome on his palm. He made a loose circle with his hand and pumped the engorged flesh from tip to base loosely, twisting at the frenulum on every upswing.

Draco thrust lazily into his hand, pressing his mouth against Harry’s temple. He closed his eyes and delighted in the sensation of his boyfriend pressed against him—the fingers that twisted in the back of his shirt, the leg that hooked around his own and pulled him closer, the teasing brush of his knuckles against the taut skin of their abdomens, the salty flesh over bone behind Draco’s ear.

He could feel hot puffs of breath on his skin, and tightened his grip—listened to Draco’s breathing grow ragged as he tried to fuck up against Harry’s body and into his palm.

“Wanna taste you,” he breathed into Draco’s ear, and revelled in the shiver it elicited. He traced the shell of Draco’s ear down to the lobe and sucked it into his mouth in an imitation of what he wanted to do farther south.

An obscene moan fell from Draco’s lips, and he laughed darkly, dragging his flattened tongue down the side of the neck so readily presented to him. When he reached the collar of Draco’s shirt, he dropped to his knees.

He caught the grey eyes he loved so much and mouthed at the tip of his cock, kissing it wetly. It jerked violently, slipping out of his mouth and smacking against the side of his nose.

Harry smiled, snaking a hand from Draco’s hip down to wrap around the base and squeezing.

“Do I get you all hot and bothered?” he asked hoarsely, and was pleased when the cock in his hand twitched again.

“Yes,” Draco hissed, dragging out the ‘s’ sibilantly. In reward, Harry returned to mouthing along his length, leaving a wet trail behind him. All the while, he massaged the root of Draco’s erection with short movements up and down, pinning Draco with his left arm to prevent him from trying to thrust into the sensation.

Harry laughed at Draco’s frustrated, angry sound, but quickly gave in and tongued at the slit before enveloping as much of the hard length with his mouth as he could. He tightened his hold across Draco’s hips as the head hit the back of his throat, and swallowed convulsively.

Above him, Draco was cursing crudely, hands threaded, once more, in Harry’s dark mane and yanking as he twitched spasmodically.

“Fuck, _Harry,_ ” he sighed when Harry had moved back and begun bobbing up and down. Harry looked up and was caught by Draco’s gaze, half-lidded and intense. His own cock throbbed, almost to the point of pain, and he pressed his free hand against it, rubbing through the fabric of his jeans.

It wasn’t enough, and he made a muffled sound of distress even as he scrambled to push his zipper aside so he could slip a hand down the elastic waist of his pants and fist himself harshly.

One of Draco’s hands slid from his hair to caress his face, feeling himself through Harry’s cheek while he sucked and slurped.

He could feel the tension building in Draco’s legs and abdomen, could feel the way his balls were starting to draw up, and with a wet _pop_ , lifted his head away, admiring the glistening, purple tip. He lapped once at the underside, tracing along the throbbing vein.

“Was gonna come,” Draco complained roughly, though Harry ignored him and moved to leave a chain of vicious, red hickeys at the V where Draco’s hip joined goin.

When he was satisfied, he followed the crease down to mouth at the swaying balls, drawing one into his mouth and massaging it with his tongue for a moment before showing the other the same treatment. He spent several minutes there, laving attention to the soft, pliant skin.

He ignored the way Draco’s hand grasped and slowly started tugging at his erection, though in an effort not to come himself, he slowed his own pace to lazy strokes.

He made his way down Draco’s balls to prod at his perineum, an action which elicited a gasp and a stutter of his hips.

Harry grinned wickedly and repeated the action until Draco was quivering with need, and cursing and praising him in turns.

Eventually, Harry nosed his way back up, and ran his tongue over the backs of Draco’s long fingers, catching swathes of cock between the slackened knuckles. They worked in tandem to bring Draco closer to the edge until Harry knocked his hand away, and once more drew Draco into his mouth to nurse at him.

This time, he had no plans of drawing it out.

Harry loved sucking cock. He felt powerful between Draco’s knees, giving and taking pleasure, and leaving Draco at his mercy, helpless to do anything but take it until he allowed otherwise.

It was an incredible rush to be able to look up and see the needy passion plastered across his expression, face slack as Harry reduced him to little more than a writhing, squirming, swearing mess, worshiping Harry as much as Harry worshiped him.

“’M close,” Draco sobbed. “I’m so close!”

Harry slowed his movements, loosening his jaw and gripping Draco’s hips again, guiding him forward in a shallow thrust. Draco didn’t need a guide, however, and started fucking Harry’s mouth with short, gut-punched cries, forcefully taking his pleasure. His thrusts grew wilder and deeper as he drew closer to the edge, sucking in great, shuddering lungfuls of air as he choked Harry with his cock.

Harry massaged Draco’s hipbone with his thumb while his other hand returned to his own groin, wanking himself frantically, seeking his own pleasure.

With a wild cry, Draco exploded. Hot, thick pulses of come filled his mouth, and Harry eagerly swallowed it down. His own orgasm ripped through him abruptly, and his eyes squeezed themselves shut at the unexpected shock of pleasure.

When he was able to open them again, it was some moments later, and he allowed Draco’s softening cock to slide out of his mouth. He lapped at it sluggishly, listening to Draco’s unsteady breathing.

“Get up here,” Draco growled, voice rough. He tugged at Harry, who took a moment to get his coordination back and relearn how to stand on stiff, wobbly legs.

Thankfully, Draco slid his arms around his waist, reeling him in until Harry’s full weight was pressed against him.

Before he could say anything, Draco had pulled him into an enthusiastic kiss, tongue sweeping into his mouth and tasting himself there. Harry was helpless but to let him, still feeling dumb from his orgasm.

Finally, Draco drew back, and they panted into each others’ mouths, so close, Harry couldn’t make out any of Draco’s features clearly.

“I love it when I can provoke you into sex.”

Harry blinked at him stupidly, and felt Draco grin. Brain catching up, he rolled his eyes and pressed another kiss to his mouth to shut him up.

For several long minutes, they kissed with hungry lassitude, leaning into each other and not thinking.

“What’s that?” Harry asked at last, when he registered the acrid smell on the air.

“Hmm?” Draco hummed against his shoulder uncaringly.

“Something smells burnt,” Harry tried again, and this time, Draco jumped.

“Oh, _fuck!_ The cupcakes!”

Suddenly, Harry found himself stumbling backwards, hip banging painfully against the kitchen counter as Draco wrenched the oven door open and released a billow of black smoke.

“Where did you put the oven mittens?!” Draco shouted as the fire alarm went off above them.

“Counter!” Harry yelled back, grabbing a tea towel and attempting to fan the alarm silent.

Draco cursed aggressively as he withdrew the muffin tray and flapped a hand to dissipate the fumes still pluming from the oven.

“It’s not working,” Draco called a minute later as the alarm stubbornly refused to shut up. They were both coughing intermittently.

In the panic, he had forgotten he was a wizard, and would have slapped himself if he’d had the time. Instead, he drew his wand and silenced the damn alarm before casting a ventilation charm and spelling the windows in the lounge and bedroom open.

There had only been a brief silence before Draco whirled around to face him. His eyes were red, irritated by the smoke, and his face was screwed up in fury.

“This is entirely your fault!” he spat at Harry, running a hand through his hair, dishevelling it further.

“How do you figure?” Harry asked bemusedly.

“If you hadn’t bloody well _seduced_ me...! I’ll bet you planned this: distract me long enough for my cupcakes to be irredeemably burnt so you could say you won!” Draco was shaking in his anger.

Harry felt an uncomfortable prickle of amusement and anger in his stomach, and, against the klaxons going off in his head, stepped closer.

“You know,” he intoned lowly, dodging the swat Malfoy aimed at his head and slipping his arms around his boyfriend’s back. “This is probably the first time anyone’s ever bitched about being on the receiving end of a blowjob.”

Draco glowered at him, though Harry was happy to note that he didn’t resist the touch, and hadn’t attempted to smack him again.

“Well,” Draco said curtly, through reluctant, pursed lips. “It was a very good blowjob.”

Harry grinned at that and allowed his boyfriend to walk him backwards until he hit the edge of the counter.

“Don’t think I didn’t notice that you didn’t deny what I said about ruining my cupcakes,” Draco said sharply.

Harry shrugged noncommittally. In truth, he hadn’t planned it, but he’d gladly take the credit for the happy coincidence.

“Look at them,” Draco grumbled, and they both stared down at the cupcakes. They were still smoking slightly, and looked just as unappetizing as Harry’s. “You’re a bloody menace.”

Harry laughed.

“Yeah,” he agreed. “But it turns you on.”


End file.
